M. Mallum - 1
Matt Mallum
EN 493 – Winter 2011
Critical Paper
Accepting Reality:
An Examination of Shakespeare’s Tragedies Hamlet and Richard II
Like the collected works of William Shakespeare, a king’s crown must be passed on.
And as with the Bard’s exhaustive expose on humankind, a king’s crown comes with a sea of
troubles. Indeed, in the wide arc of his writings, Shakespeare assimilated this very idea with
plot and character. In Hamlet, such a confluence occurs – although it appears an oddly
distorted situation. Claudius inherits his brother’s throne, and the dead king’s son wants to
kill him. In a modern understanding, Prince Hamlet’s search for revenge seems warranted by
this usurpation of his birthright. However, it is not the reason given by Hamlet himself;
instead, the prince spouts dark rhetoric about fratricide and licentiousness. All thought and
talk about the illegality of Claudius’s rise to power is curiously absent from the play.
Considering Hamlet inquires of nearly every anxiety that blazes in the human brain, this
absence rings in the ears and raises questions of its own – was this an oversight on the part of
playwright or intentional disregard? An examination of ancient Scandinavian law reveals the
probable answer – neither.
The principle of primogeniture, with which we 21st century audiences are so familiar,
did not historically exist Denmark. George W. Keeton argues this in his book Shakespeare’s
Legal and Political Background. Thus, Keeton points out, “…Shakespeare took the fact of
succession from his source” (Keeton 194); that is, the crown in Saxo Grammaticus’s Vita
Amlethi takes the same unusual route as it does in Hamlet. Keeton’s statement is appropriate,
but for one difference between Shakespeare’s play and the original. In Vita Amlethi, Hamlet’s
esurient uncle rules cooperatively with his brother, and after murdering him, takes exclusive
M. Mallum - 2
governance over the land. Nonetheless, by this telling, Hamlet has been done injustice, as
modern rights of inheritance stipulate that Hamlet at least be allowed to take his father’s place
as joint-ruler. Like his literary successor, however, Saxo’s Hamlet concentrates solely upon
his uncle’s “fratricide and incest”, rather than condemning the usurpation his birthright
(Gollancz 143). The situation suggests that Danish laws of inheritance differed from those
now widely understood by the western world. Keeton elucidates the plausible alternative:
“An estate descended not to the eldest in lineal descent but to the senior et dignissimus of the
blood and clan of the last owner” (Keeton 195). As Saxo Grammaticus was a “learned” man
and commissioned to “chronicle the history of his country” using “Danish traditions”, the
system portrayed in Vita Amlethi is likely credible and typical (Gollancz 14). Shakespeare
himself seems to have acknowledged such validity, since he observes the practice twice, in
both Denmark and Norway.
However, if legal precedence points in Claudius’s favor, why and how should we, a
modern audience ideally sympathetic to Hamlet, accept the way Shakespeare so readily
adopts it in the play? Does Claudius so deserve the crown? It would be little stretch for
Shakespeare to have simply fueled the fire of Hamlet’s vengeance by including the theft of his
throne to the list, and it would hardly create a significant detraction from Hamlet’s moral
dilemmas. Andrew Hadfield writes in his book Shakespeare and Renaissance Politics, “It is
well attested that works of political history and theory were widely read in the late 1500s and
early 1600s” (Hadfield 17). The majority of such literature explores and upholds ideas about
inheritance of the first born; even Shakespeare’s Histories primarily do so. Certainly,
Shakespeare ran the risk of confounding at least some portion of his Elizabethan and Stuart
audiences by leaving them without explanation of his source’s unfamiliar and ancient
M. Mallum - 3
customs. For an even more modern audience, Claudius’s rise would certainly strike askance.
So again the question: why should we, as scholars of Shakespeare, bow to Claudius’s
kingship and not to Hamlet’s? The answer, along with others, is hidden within another of
Shakespeare’s tragedies – Richard II.
The play is a cataclysmic fusion of humanities’ noblest desires and most devastating
uncertainties. Richard himself is entirely the centerpiece of the play. He casts a shadow over
everything. He is a wax-winged man desperately fluttering up toward the sun, and looking
down the whole way. He shows us exactly how not to be a king.
At the end of the play, we see a Richard regretful and grandly melancholy; he reflects,
imprisoned by Bolingbroke in the Tower of London, upon his sins and shortcomings. Among
them seems to be a kind of pride: “Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot unlikely
wonders…Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves…” (5.5.18-24) Richard, for all his
ill grace, knows himself; he steps from time and place to peer at what stuff he is really made
of – and sees clearly. He is an inherently proud man, and this is what blinds him to reality.
It is this pride that lends him such regality in the first act of Richard II. For example,
when he exclaims to the quarreling Mowbray and Bolingbroke, “Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be
ruled by me”, his authority is asserted with a cool resolve, rather than pomposity (1.1.152).
At this point, he has nothing to fear; he is comfortable and assured in his role. Again, in the
lines: “Should nothing privilege him nor partialize the unstooping firmness of my upright
soul”, Richard exhibits a confident demeanor (1.1.120-21). His language is stately and
magnanimous. Certainly, these are qualities of an effective ruler who deserves support and
respect. And yet - as the curtain is drawn down upon the scene and the contending lords
continue to insist upon justice, his control of the situation slips imperceptibly. He seems to
M. Mallum - 4
sense this, reminding the noblemen that “We were not born to sue, but to command”
(1.1.196). At the same time, however, he does nothing to definitively command their
obedience. His equilibrium and pride have been cracked, and he does not return to the
genuine certainty averred in his opening lines.
From that point on, the play tumbles beyond his control. The moment he exiles both
men comes without preamble, as though an impulsive bid to rid him of the problem. We can
see in the way he initially conducts himself, that Richard understands a sovereign ought to
command respect and order; thus, in an increasingly frenetic attempt to reinforce his control,
the king falls back upon his God-given right to be sovereign. For example, after learning that
Bolingbroke has broken his exile and is stirring up discontent, Richard proclaims, “Revolt out
subjects? That we cannot mend; they break their faith in God as well as us”, placing the
Almighty on his side (3.1.100-1). At the same time, however, his wounded pride drives him
to become infected and too inflated with these ideas, which reflect themselves increasingly in
grand oratory. Later in the same scene, he uses a regal sun motif when he declares:
…This traitor Bolingbroke…
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face…
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
the deputy elected by the Lord. (3.1.47-55).
Rebellious Gloucester, before Richard and preparing to hear his terms, remarks, “Yet
looks he like a king. Behold, his eye, as bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth controlling
majesty” (3.2.68-70). In some way, Richard’s manner and speech are clearly inspiring.
However, they do little to intenerate the terrifying reality of his position – he is not infallible.
Although pride and assurance are necessary, a king must simultaneously be purposeful and
practical. Otherwise, he gains too much faith in the raw power and righteousness of his
M. Mallum - 5
office, and looses sight of what must be done to govern. And this is exactly what happens to
Richard as his kingdom slips away.
The rationale behind his actions begins to waver and often shatters. The most obvious
example of this occurs when Richard seizes the “the plate, coin, revenues, and moveables”
that rightfully belong to exiled Bolingbroke (2.1.161). Here, the king is at the height of his
peril – old uncle York trumpets the deadly consequences of Richard’s actions (and a key
political issue of the play): “How art thou a king but by fair sequence and succession...You
pluck a thousand dangers…You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts” (2.1.198-9, & 201, &
205-6). And yet the king cannot help himself. He seems disturbed and slighted by
Bolingbroke’s apparent popularity, about which he confides to his lord Green, “His courtship
to the common people; how he did seem to dive into their hearts…as were our England in
reversion his, and he our subjects’ next degree in hope” (1.4.24-5, & 35-6). To show that his
position has not been weakened, Richard rescinds Bolingbroke’s land and rights to furnish the
wars in Ireland. When Bolingbroke returns to reclaim those birthrights, Richard’s inflamed
sense of righteousness and security expresses itself to Bolingbroke’s envoy, Northumberland:
“Yet know, my master, God omnipotent, is mustering in his clouds on our behalf armies of
pestilence…” (3.3.85-7).
Ultimately, Richard’s fall is compounded by a digression into a world of eroded
certainty. Despite the way he clings to the weight of his “sceptre’s awe”, some part of
Richard realizes the distinctly difficult situation he has made for himself, and constantly
threatens to buckle (1.1.118). He shows it when attempting to confront the rebellion, and his
indecision leads to inaction. Eventually he is confronted with the choice to either absolve
Bolingbroke or abdicate. Once again, he expresses uncertainty: “What must the king do
M. Mallum - 6
now? Must he submit?” and “O God, O God! That e’er this tongue of mine that laid the
sentence of dread banishment on yon proud man…!” (3.3.133-35, & 143-44)
At the end of the play, while he sits in the Tower, Richard ruminates on his faults.
One, as it has been noted, was pride. The other, doubt. It is a peculiar dichotomy of awful
comprehension and utter indecision: “Thus play I in one person many people…Sometimes I
am a king: Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, and so I am” (5.5.31-4). He is the
quintessential man of tragedy, too full of prideful hope and doubt – this is exactly why he fails
as a ruler. And it is exactly why Hamlet would fail too.
When Richard dies, it seems as though his spirit simply slips under the door and finds
itself in Elsinore. There is no character in Shakespeare – apart from Falstaff, perhaps – that
resembles Hamlet more closely than Richard. The parallels are startling.
There is a scene in Richard II where the king must officially relinquish the crown to
Henry Bolingbroke, and so make him Henry IV. It is a moment of singular profundity for the
audience, for the Richard in it displays a previously unseen level of intelligence and
awareness. He comes upon his successor and retinue, and acerbity seems to crackle from his
mouth. “Alack, why am I sent for to a king?” he asks, then says – “I hardly yet have learned
to insinuate, flatter, bow and bend my limbs” (4.1.162, & 164-5). “God save the king!”, he
cries, “Although I be not he” (174). He continues to mock in this manner, until Bolingbroke
wearily asks him, “Are you contented to resign the crown?” (4.1.200). To this, Richard puns
“Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be; Therefore no no, for I resign to thee”, and jests: “All
pomp and majesty I do forswear” (4.1.201-02, & 211). This bright and cutting intellect is one
bridge between Richard and Hamlet, although Hamlet’s brainpower greatly outstrips that of
his counterpart. Nonetheless, it is a shared facet of their characters, and as in the scene above,
M. Mallum - 7
it often displays itself in caustic punning and clever mockery. Hamlet seems to have his most
fun with Polonius. For example, when he sees the chancellor’s excitement at the arrival of the
players, the great Dane asks him whether he had ever been in theater, to which Polonius
eagerly exclaims, “I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed I’ th’ capital; Brutus killed me”
(3.2.99-100), Hamlet’s reply has a wolfish grace: “It was a brute part of him to kill so capital
a calf there” (3.2.101-2). As critic Harold Bloom extols, “Hamlet is the most formidable
ironist ever to walk upon a stage” (Bloom 65).
Both characters become Shakespeare’s paradigms not only of poetic skill, but as tragic
figures. Gossamer language spins heavy thoughts from the shared darkness in their minds.
They step from themselves during their self-examinations, as we have seen Richard do while
locked in the Tower of London; this creates an astounding illusion of depth and color. The
questions they ponder are intensely cerebral. Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy seems
to echo an earlier speech of Richard’s. As in Hamlet’s contemplation of nihilism and death,
the king’s rhetoric takes on a gloomy tone, as he meditates on his looming deposition. “Let’s
talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs” (3.2.145) In the same moment, Richard is tackled by
his most morbid thought of all, a notion that grips him for the short remainder of his life:
Within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing at his state and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks (3.2.160-5).
In this lucid fantasy, Richard simultaneously resembles Hamlet’s saturnine disposition and
becomes his own player king – who is all too aware that he is trapped within a fatalistic
tragedy. It is another sinister, yet beautiful connection between the two plays and their titular
characters.
M. Mallum - 8
We see how Richard shares many traits with his successor, and know that many of
Hamlet’s are more distinct and developed versions of them. Therefore, it stands to reason that
Hamlet has inherited some of the his devastating flaws, even to a more sensitive degree.
Indeed, true to the corollary between the characters, Shakespeare seems to have injected
Hamlet with a pride similar to that possessed by the tragic king. The prince we meet in the
beginning of Hamlet tortured by the state in which his life has settled. “Oh, that this too too
sullied flesh would melt,” he moans upon witnessing his mother and Claudius together
(1.2.129). It seems sure that Hamlet loved his “excellent” father, that he had invested a great
deal of pride into him (1.2.139). He yearns for a reason to speak out against Gertrude’s
“incestuous” remarriage, as is evident in his lament: “She married…It is not nor it cannot
come to good. But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue” (1.2.156, & 157-8).
When the prince finally hears the call for revenge from the Ghost, it infuses him to
the point of overwhelming. Almost at once, Hamlet cries “Yes, by heaven!” (1.4.104) Even
as part of his mind recognizes the danger of accepting such tenuous information, the prince
yearns to believe. He says of the Ghost, “I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane”
(1.4.44-5). It seems reasonable to acknowledge that Hamlet’s readiness to undertake the
quest given to him swells from his pride. Pride in his father’s royal legacy, pride about the
accuracy his own ill feelings about Claudius. Indeed, he seems slightly exultant upon
learning Claudius’s perfidy – “O my prophetic soul!” (1.5.41) Later in his exchange with the
Ghost, he makes a similar proclamation. “I set down that one may smile, and smile, and be a
villain. At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark” (106-08). So while Hamlet is often more
perceptive of his reality than King Richard, he nevertheless falls prey to an somewhat inflated
sense self-righteousness. The way he relentlessly pursues his cause – for much of the time
M. Mallum - 9
without solid evidence – is somewhat unsettling. He is the ultimate method actor, working
himself into an “antic disposition” for the sake of his role (1.5.172). He waxes melodramatic,
declaring: “What is he whose grief…conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand like
wonder-wounded hearers? This is I” (5.1.241, 243, & 244). One must wonder how far he
would take his kingdom and in what direction, were he to possess the throne.
Critics seem to make a great deal out of Hamlet’s indecision. Fault can hardly be
found with them; indeed, the prince’s penchant for uncertainty and inaction rivals Richard’s.
Even for his boasts and promises that he will see revenge, some part of Hamlet’s mind is
dissonant. Of course, the most obvious show of this comes during the infamous confessional
scene, in which Claudius is defenseless and praying. The prince has his chance to exact
revenge, and fully realizes it: “Now might I do it pat…and now I’ll do it” (3.3.73). He goes
so far as to draw his blade and make to cut the king down. He wavers, consumed by anxiety
over the idea that Claudius’s soul might be absolved during his prayer, and death at that
moment would only serve the monarch. “A villain kills my father, and for that…do this same
villain send to heaven” (3.376-8). Afterwards, Hamlet is torn by this decision, and out of
dismay over his own inaction, recklessly stabs Polonius through the arras. Thus, it seems that
Hamlet cannot always reconcile his reason with his desire for results – a potentially disastrous
contradiction for a ruler to possess.
Imagine now, Hamlet’s head wreathed in the gilded crown of Denmark. How would
he rule? Would he live or die? The historian Peter Saccio notes in his book Shakespeare’s
English Kings that early in his reign, Richard did not utterly fail as a sovereign; he on
occasion “displayed remarkable courage” (Saccio 20). His rule only began to falter when a
handful of discontented and powerful lords rebelled. Although Richard was restored, his
M. Mallum - 10
resolve and courage was shaken. By the end of his reign, he had become the uncertain man
we see in Richard II.
If Hamlet had somehow become king and was faced with similar obstacles, would he
be so irrevocably shaken and damaged? By the way Shakespeare crafts Hamlet so closely in
the image of his template – Richard – it seems we may say yes. So great are the parallels
between the King of England and the Prince of Denmark, that the latter could very easily turn
in the same direction when faced with great adversity. Hamlet simply is not the man of action
and surety like Claudius or Fortinbras or Bolingbroke. Shakespeare did not equip him to be
so. His pride and indecision are not simply products of circumstance – they are who he is.
Thus, we ask the question one last time. How can we as an audience and readers of
Shakespeare accept Claudius as King of Denmark and not Hamlet? Is Claudius more
deserving of the crown? The answer is quite simple, and yet so very complex: Hamlet cannot
be equal to the task because Shakespeare has molded and refined him to be the perfect tragic
figure, to be undeniably alike the ill-fated Richard II in language, thought, and inaction. All
his lofty faculties and reason lead him to destruction. From the beginning, Hamlet’s role is to
simply take the fall.
M. Mallum - 11